


The Future Is A Moment That Will Never Pass

by CescaLR



Series: The Snap. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 'Two People Left In The World' scenario, (kind of? The Snap counts), (that's not a spoiler that's the PREMISE dear god what have I done), Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Coping, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Isolation, JUST, Living Together, MCU will be minor in this particular story but not in this series okay? cool, Magic, Major Character Injury, Nerve Damage, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Permanent Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, You Have Been Warned, and for the situation our heroes find themselves stuck in, anyway, anyway warning out of the way now to the other stuff, if medical stuff squicks you don't read the second chapter, it'll be happier in the following fics I PROMISE, it's here as set-up for future fics in this very large Universe, it's not too detailed but it's /quite/ detailed so i'd just err on the safe side, look okay it's mostly not happy because EVERYONE DIED except Harry and Ron, nothing is rlly 'of the good' here but!! there are moments, ok? good, skip it, so u no, the snap, trigger warning: gore. surgery. blood. nothing fun in the second chapter, while MCU earth is having infinty war HP earth is during 1996 July, you can read some of the chapter but you will need to skip parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Thanos snaps his fingers, and the consequences are felt throughout the endless Universe.





	1. Consequences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mad Titan, The Last Titan, snaps his fingers.
> 
> He kills half the universe's sentient life. 
> 
> (This does not just affect one part of everything. The universe is endless. There is more to this story than has been told.)

There was a moment when everything seemed to still. This moment would have been unremarkable - people don't tend to notice when the universe needs to take a collective breath. Except...

There was a moment. There was a  _snap._

The sound echoed. The universe, utterly still.

For, indeed,  _the universe is endless._

**_And the Mad Titan just destroyed half of all living creatures within it._  **

The problem, you see, is that The Snap is random. Half is half, whether one entire planet is taken or one person from one place, they add to that half. 

In the case of - Earth One, we'll call it - The Snap took half. Half of all sentient life; half of the animals, half of the people, half of the aliens, half half  _ **half.**_

But that story is not this story. That story is well known. 

This is - similar. Similar to a story most would know. 

The Snap took half the universe. On Earth... let's say, Earth-100-b, The Snap - didn't take half of the population. Not even close.

_It took all but two._

(Because, in the end, half is half. Entire galaxies snuffed out - some, left alone completely, except perhaps for a missing cat. Who knows; after all, the universe is endless. And half of infinite is still infinite, even if it's infinitely smaller. So - to put it simply... half the infinite resources of the universe is still infinite. There's just less infinite than before. Fewer infinite possibilities than before.

Many, many, _many_ smaller infinities.

But. They're still _infinities._ )

* * *

The Snap echoed through the battlefield. It echoed through Wakanda, and beyond, echoing throughout the earth. Skyscrapers fell from crashing planes, a suddenly unmanned rocket started veering drastically off course - back down to the ground, through the atmosphere, into a city.  Cars suddenly didn't have drivers, boats didn't have captains, submarines suddenly left unmanned. 

Delicate, dangerous things - suddenly dropped. Explosions, chemical spills - nuclear meltdowns. 

Erased servers.

Destroyed plumbing.

Collapsed houses.

Exploding powerplants.

... Indeed - the end of the world had come for them all. 

Everywhere.

Everyone. 

(Forests burned. Oil spilt, oceans polluted. Half the resources - because  _sentient life is a resource that keeps things running._

Without it - planets fell. Galaxies died. Stars - _imploded.)_

* * *

_For that collective moment, the Universe breathed._

* * *

On Earth-One, half of all sentient lifeforms turned to dust. 

On Earth-Two, none.

Earth-Three - amusingly, three. (Though. That is a bit dark... yet. Humour is a way to cope, according to some.)

Earth-Ten - Twenty. A Prime Minister, a Spy. Eleven children. Two cats, a dog. A girl who'd just come out to her mother. A boy on a date with his best friend. A religious leader, and a loving father of five. (They're orphans, now.) 

* * *

Earth-Ninety-Eight, five-hundred.

Earth-Ninety-Nine, none. 

Earth-One-Hundred... well. It's been stated.

 _Everyone but two._ Two humans. 

... Two wizards. 

(Two fifteen-year-olds. Two teenagers, two minors -  _two **kids.**_ )

* * *

The Snap echoed beyond Earth One. It rang in ears for such a short moment that no living sentient being noticed, not consciously, but it rang all the same.

It rang, and the Universe heard. It rang, and the Universe  _complied._

(The owner of the Gauntlet owns the Universe. This is, indeed, simple fact.)

(Unfortunately for the Universe, nobody who wants the Gauntlet would do good things with it.)

(Like doubling the non-sentient resources. Just a thought.)

* * *

A collective breath. A collective pause. It only lasted a moment, but a moment was _enough_. 

* * *

The Universe complied to the Last Titan's whims. 

A young boy, no older than fifteen - stood, staring, in the atrium of his hidden country's government building. 

His friend - fifteen too, young and headstrong and loyal and brash and currently compromised - stared too; even with what had happened to him that night, he could tell something was wrong.

The first boy, the shorter boy, stared. The snake-like being not far from him -

 _Dissolved into the air,_ for lack of a better phrase. His eyes widened behind his glasses, suprised, momentarily relieved.

Then.

He stared some more, shock taking root. A bushy haired girl - gone, a short redhead - gone, a blonde, gone, another boy his age, gone.

The fireplaces flared to life with green fire. 

Nobody stepped through. Dust on the wind -  _but no people._

* * *

**_The boys, in their horrified shock, kept staring._ **

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... oh dear.


	2. Complications.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eerie Hospital. 
> 
> And nobody left to help.

Above all else, Harry Potter was a survivor. He was a fighter, too. He'd had to be. 

(In his first year, Harry Potter killed a man. In one Earth, He turned him to dust - another, it was burning. Either way - he died. Because Harry had had a choice, at that moment... and chose to  _live.)_

Harry knew various ways to defend himself. Harry knew how to keep blows from landing somewhere delicate, how to roll with a fall, how to  _fall._ Harry knew how to dodge blunt weapons, like fists and frying pans - he knew how to cook, how to clean, how to garden. He knew how to hide, how to keep himself from notice. He knew how to look after a house, how to fix things that are broken, how to paint, how to avoid lead poisoning from living in a tiny little cupboard that hadn't been repainted in years. Decades, probably.

Harry knew all those things. 

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived (lived through a killing curse, lived through abuse, lived through year after year of constant danger, lived through so much more than a teenager,  _a child_ should ever,  _ever_ have to, and  _survived_  so well he's still _himself_ -) _,_ Boy of a Prophecy he hadn't yet heard, he could look after himself.

But one thing he'd never been particularly good at because he'd never had to do it - was looking after someone else. 

Ron, from the terror of the evening, perhaps, from the brains, most likely - they were gone but the scars were already forming and _they'd_ stay, Harry just  _knew_ it - nearly fell over in a dead faint.

Harry felt close. Voldemort had been in the middle of attempting to - Harry wasn't sure. Posses him, break his spirit, his mind - do...  _something,_ he'd been in the middle of  _that_ and Harry felt close to fainting too, but he couldn't. 

Whatever had happened here, just then, Harry would have to deal with later.

(Harry Potter, from years of the Dursleys, from years of being hated and loved in so many fickle ways by fickle people, from nearly over fifteen years of nothing but misery with the occasional bursts of happiness - knew how to compartmentalise, too.)

Harry caught Ron, who was heavy but no more than Harry (who had to do _so much_ manual labour at the Dursleys it could and rightly _should_ be called Child Labour and Exploitation) could lift without much issue at all, thank  _Merlin -_ then, after making sure he had a good hold, started half-carrying half-dragging Ron towards the Floos. 

Whatever it was had taken approximately  _at least_ four people, because Harry had no way to know how many people had been about to arrive via the Floos, so given that, hopefully, not too many more were taken. It wasn't unlikely that there were a fair number of people left, but the current ratio, four:two, was not one that looked promising. 

Still.

Harry hoped as he called out "St. Mungo's!" and stepped through, still holding Ron upright, that there would be  _at least_ one, just  _one_ mediwizard left.

Just one. 

The green flames spit him out into the entrance of St. Mungo's - and what Harry could hear, as he cleared soot from his glasses, was...

Disconcerting.

With Ron's arm across his shoulder and the teen in question completely unconscious, any progress was slow-going. Harry called out - hoped for anyone, anyone  _at all,_ hoped  _someone_ could hear him, but... nobody,  _nothing_ answered.

Harry came to a stop in the hallway he'd found himself in. He listened, and the silence was eerie. 

Too quiet. 

Harry swallowed, wary, worried, secretly terrified, then - after a few more moments of listening to the silence - continued walking. Nothing made itself known, not a single soul; Harry walked the length of every hallway, peered into every room, scoured every little nook and cranny but -

Nothing. Not a single, living soul. 

(Living being the operative word.)

Harry left the morgue, and closed his eyes, leaned back against the door - Ron still heavy, the taller teen's arm still slung across his shoulders. 

Nobody. Nothing. 

Harry swallowed. Gulped. 

Ron needed help. 

There was nobody around to give it. 

Nobody, of course... except _Harry_. 

* * *

Harry found the nicest, neatest,  _emptiest_ corridor (because... non-living people had been left alone, bodies rotting, corpses decomposing before his very  _eyes,_ stuck in beds, operating rooms, previously carefully sealed open-heart surgeries because sometimes, certain muggle techniques are necessary, because the magic could interfere with what was going wrong in the first place, if it was magical, in a way that was detrimental to  _everyone's_ health-) and the neatest, nicest,  _emptiest_ room, and deposited Ron (carefully, gently,  _fuck_ what is he going to  _do_ he can't do  _this_ he's not a  _doctor-_ ) on the bed, and then...

Then, Harry fled. He fled the hospital; having looked in every room, he hadn't found anything he'd need - no books, no medical journals, nothing. Not even any instructions for anything at all. 

Harry, remembering various Mediwizards' names, went to the Floo and tried every. Single.  _One,_ in every way he could think a witch or wizard would name their own Floo address, before, _finally_ , "Price Place!"  _Fucking worked_ and he went through, fast, abrupt - his words had been clear, thankfully,  _thank Merlin,_ and he only spun out on the landing. Harry wiped soot from his glasses and stormed over to Madame Patricia Price's bookshelves, of which she had many, and started  _scouring_ each and every single book he saw that was even  _remotely_ related to medicine  _because she **had** to have  **something, please have something -**_

She had nothing. Harry used her floo to try again, "Mills Manor' - nothing, "Barnes Home", nothing, "3 Weaver Way," Nothing, nothing, nothing -

_Nothing._

Harry made a frustrated, angry, ( _scared)_ sound as time and time again, he'd found  _nothing._

Harry took a breath. He didn't know how much time he'd taken, or how much time he'd need, nor how much time he'd have left for both of those before - before -

Harry took another breath. He flooed back to the Ministry.

The Ministry was empty. Starkly, glaringly  _empty,_ not even any dust on the floor as a reminder of what had happened here - some time prior. Harry ignored furiously where his friends had been standing, and stormed through the atrium, waited impatiently in the elevator, and stalked through the Department of Mysteries. 

It took him  _far_ too many turns to find the brain room again - the tank was broken, the one Ron had summoned the brain from in his loopy state after the overpowered cheering charm - and the brains in it dead, no longer sealed away from outside contamination in the fluid that kept them... what counted as alive, Harry supposed, but obviously not  _alive,_ because otherwise they'd be gone, too - the ones in the tanks which were as pristine and secure as ever. 

Harry shuddered, able to take in the horror in a way he'd been too preoccupied to last time he'd been in this room, but he had a  _mission._ Harry ignored the brain tanks as best he could while he avoided the brains that had spilt out to the floor and the fluid they'd been kept in, as he searched the room.

He did, eventually, find some notes. They were gibberish, practically, most of them - but even as he stared, whatever spell had been keeping them secret faded away, and the notes were there, thank  _Merlin,_ in plain English, written by a person with far better handwriting than Harry himself, who seemed to have as efficient a method of note-taking as Hermione - perhaps, even more so, given the delicate and dangerous nature of their work. 

Harry gathered what he could in his hands, and then sprinted back to the atrium - the elevator ride making him even antsier than before, because there was the potential, already, that he'd taken  _too long_ and he'd  _run out of time_ and Ron -  _and Ron -_

Harry sprinted through the halls of St Mungo's, the eeriness urging him on, and stopped at the entrance to what was now Ron's room. 

Harry, carefully, quietly, walked into the room. 

He didn't know where to start. Or, well. He  _did,_ he just didn't know how he was going to  _do this._

Harry was... an okay wizard. But certainly nowhere near as good as the Unspeakable who'd written these notes - and Harry sorely,  _sorely wished_ that  _Hermione was here._

But she wasn't. And, as seemed likely, she would - she would - 

(She would never be again. Harry pushed that thought, like so many others tonight, into it's own little draw, then slammed the drawer closed and, with all his might, pushed the filing cabinet deeper into the depths of his mind. Not now. Later.)

Harry took a deep breath.

He left the room, found one of the nearby offices, cleared the desk, sat down, spread the notes out over its surface, grabbed some parchment and some ink and a quill - and got to work. 

* * *

_Magic, it turns out, did not take kindly to Thanos' Snap. It did not, indeed, take kindly to its children's deaths. It did not, indeed, take kindly to the way this made spells fail, wards collapse, buildings fall and countries die and continents **suffer**. _

_Magic, as it turns out, **hates** when it's own is targeted. Magic, it turns out -_

_**Now had too much to give to two people**. Shared out among just thousands, even hundreds, Magic could seem natural. Those who had it would be less powerful, less able to break the laws of Nature. More so than before, but at a level that the human brain could comprehend._

_The problem now stood, of course, that there are only **two people.** At least, for **this** Magic, in **this**  particular **infinite** section of the **infinite** Universe. _

_( **However**. That doesn't make it any **less** of a problem, of course. Two people with the ability to access **that** **much** **power** , and **completely** and **utterly** **unaware** of that fact **in its entirety**.)_

_Magic, as it turns out, has the capacity to despair. And so, indeed... **Magic despaired.**_

* * *

_**No more.** No more children of Magic's are dying. **Not a single one.**_

* * *

It was a singularly incredible feat of Magic, what happened next. 

Because Magic, when it wanted, didn't have to let its children die like  ** _mortals._** Because they were not, because they were  ** _Magic's._**

Magic is infinite. Forever. Diluted among the population of Earth-One-Hundred, that's less noticeable. The problem is, that population is now two, one of whom is far, far too close to lasting damage than Magic would ever want. 

(When there is a world full of Magic's children, there are too many for it to hear cries for help all the time, every second of every hour of every day of every year because even infinity can be stretched too thin. 

But at that point - the boy in the glasses, Magic's Balance to the Abomination it let get out of hand, was the only conscious child of Magic  _left._

And maybe, in another world, he'd have been too late to save his friend. The boy wouldn't have died - but he would have never woken. The horrible experiments done on those brains would have scrambled the redheaded teen's to the point where it would never work again, not consciously. 

But in this world -  _that is not the case.)_

* * *

_Magic is alive in everyone. You just need to ask for its help. (The problem stood, then, that until this point - it couldn't hear any single individual above the din of everyone else.)_

* * *

Harry had read the notes. He'd practically  _inhaled them,_ more intent on learning this than he'd been intent about learning anything in his life, prior to this point. 

Given the evidence of the state of St. Mungo's, and the lack of contact from anyone like Headmaster Dumbledore, Harry knew no help would be coming. So he  _had_ to know this, had to know it  _well,_ had to be able to do the spells it mentioned  _perfectly,_ and fuck but he's  _so glad_ the Unspeakable had thought of this occurrence and planned for it, contingency after contingency.

Harry ignored that after a certain amount of time (on the one most important thing after the potential cure, the Unspeakable had not known the answer) the afflicted would be long gone to the world. 

Forever.

Harry stood, with his scrap of parchment clutched tightly in his grip. Knuckles white around his wand, going over the motions as he ran, Harry made his way back to the room Ron was in. 

Lying there, on the bed, Ron looked peaceful. If Harry didn't do something soon, if he hadn't run out of time yet  _already,_ Ron would never - he'd never -

And Harry would be - he'd be - 

( _Wake up. Alone._

**_Wake up. Alone.)_ **

Harry took a deep, shaky breath. He smoothed out the scrap of parchment and placed it carefully on the bedside table. With a steady wand hand and a shaky free hand, Harry started reciting the spells. 

First, diagnostics. What had the brains latched onto?

_Veins. Nervous system. Wrists; got in through the ulnar and radial arteries, where they join - uh, 'anastomose'... the arches, okay, right.... and the radial nerve, okay, **I don't understand any of this** but that's that part, so I do..._

Harry checked the parchment. Okay, if ulnar and radial arteries and radial nerve, use spell - fuck, his _handwriting,_ Harry had even  _tried_ to make it  _as legible as possible -_ okay, use spell five...

Harry carefully and properly enunciated, cast the spell he needed to. It would  _hopefully_ stop the spread of any of... whatever it was that the brains had put into Ron's systems, and allow for extraction. 

Right. Okay. Extraction.

 _This was the difficult part._ Harry stilled his shaky free hand. Now he'd done that spell, the rest needed to be done manually because any other magic tended to destabilise the stasis spell. 

_Okay. So I just need to... to drain it out without killing him. And **quickly.**_ _Fuck._

Harry took another breath. He picked up a scalpel and looked at the quick sketch he'd made to explain the excessively wordy notes the Unspeakable had written.

Okay. Harry took a deep breath, which shook unnervingly - but he kept his hands steady.

(Harry Potter had good practice keeping his hands steady. Cooking from a young age teaches you this - if your hand shook, you could spill something. If your hand shook, you could burn something, flick something hot and _burning_ at yourself or someone else, or otherwise do something  _wrong._

And _that_ never led to **anything** good.)

Harry carefully sliced open Ron's left, then right arm. He swallowed heavily, horrified, as the silver-tinged, dark, almost black blood slowly oozed out of the incisions.

Harry swallowed. He'd seen worse. 

(He'd  _done_ worse.)

When the blood lost the silver sheen, Harry got ready, wand in hand. When it became red again, started flowing easier, Harry cancelled the stasis spell then immediately sealed up the wounds with two overpowered  _episkeys,_ then  _tergo-ed_ the tainted blood away. 

Harry took a shaky breath. He wasn't done yet. 

Another stasis spell, a different one for the post-operation necessities (so that Ron could  _use his arms after all this),_ one that would work fine even with other magic (and couldn't have been used earlier because it wasn't strong enough and didn't do quite the right things), and Harry set about the second most difficult task:

Fixing the damaged nerves and arteries. 

Repairing the arteries first was recommended, so Harry did that because he didn't know any fucking better than the Unspeakable, after all.

Neither of them had had to do this. Really, even if the Unspeakable was here to help, they'd still both be going in blind. All those notes, no matter how meticulous, had just been  _theoretical._

_(It better **fucking work)**_

Harry slowly, painstakingly used various medical spells the Unspeakable had written down; controlling clotting so a dangerous Blood Clot wasn't formed (because that would require  _amputation_ which would  _suck_ and  _probably kill Ron_ because  ** _Harry didn't know what he was doing)_** repairing holes and blackened, tainted patches of artery, reconnecting arches that had been... for lack of a better term, forced apart, and various other time-consuming little tweaks and things for proper blood flow. 

Harry sucked in a breath. That took too long.

(He was right. It took too long.)

Harry dispelled the stasis. Reconnecting nerves was much harder and  _much_ more delicate, so it couldn't be done with stasis charms on, because the stasis charms would affect the spells needed to fix the nerves.

According to the Unspeakable. 

( _Fuck Harry was going to **kill Ron** he **fucking was t** his was **not something he could do** fuck fuck **fuck-)**_

 

Harry silenced his thoughts with hard-won practice and set about fixing the nerves in Ron's arms. 

It went fine, at first. But there was one - one,  _just one,_ an  _important one,_ but Harry couldn't, he  _couldn't fix it._

**_FUCK._ **

Harry grunted in angry, guilty unhappiness, but there was nothing he could do. 

Harry cast the spell the unspeakable had recommended for deadened nerves, to make sure signals couldn't be sent that way and cause Ron any unnecessary pain, then sat back for a moment on the shitty fucking visitor's chair he'd had to pull up when he'd started on Ron's left arm's arteries. 

(Harry had been running on fumes for - how long was it now? He didn't know. Too long, probably.)

Harry closed his eyes, for a moment. Just a moment, then he forced them open again, despite his tiredness. Harry cast two more spells; a scourgify on himself and a spell that would sterilise the area around patients  _just in case,_ then, and only then, did he allow himself to lean back and close his eyes properly. 

Harry, having just fought in a battle, lost his godfather, cast his first Unforgivable, fought off Voldemort's legilimency, lost everyone he ever knew or cared about except for Ron in less than a minute, and performed dangerous but potentially life-saving experimental surgery on his best friend,  _needed a fucking nap, **Merlin's god-be-damned beard.**_

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even more 'oh dear'.


	3. Casualties.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healed, physically. Tired, mentally.
> 
> Devastated, emotionally.

_"Harry?"_

Harry started, jolted up in his seat, wincing at the ache in his neck from having fallen asleep while seated. "Ron," Harry said, unnecessarily, as he stared at his best mate. 

He was  _alive._ Harry had  _fucking **done it.**_

" _Ron,"_ Harry repeated, the too-fast awakening and the not-nearly-enough-sleep and the traumas (because that was certainly what the events of the previous night were) finally, inevitably enough to shatter the compartmentalisation he'd been capable of while Ron was in danger of dying.

Ron shifted, sat up, leant against the headboard and looked around, confused.

"We're in St. Mungo's," Harry said. He wasn't sure if Ron's memories of the previous night had been damaged - the Unspeakable had postulated that memories of events between the infection and the surgery might be fragmented at best, and gone at medium, and replaced with something awful at worst. 

"I can see that," Ron grumbled. Harry relaxed, minutely. 

"You got injured," Harry said, cautiously. Ron flinched. Harry gulped nervously. 

"... Right," Ron muttered. He looked down at his arms, and Harry winced. 

"I can't..." Ron flexed his left hand, experimentally. He brushed his thumb against each finger and frowned. 

"... Your nerves were damaged," Harry said, quietly. "If... a mediwizard might have been able to save them if they'd gotten to you sooner. I..." Harry swallowed, leaned forward in his chair. "I did what I could."

Ron tapped each finger. "This one," He said, indicating the index, "I can feel touch up to the first knuckle. That one -" The middle, "Nothing." His thumb was fine, small mercies, but his ring-finger and his little finger couldn't feel anything, either. 

Ron looked up at Harry. 

"Think you saved my life there, mate," He said, equally as quietly as Harry had been talking. 

Harry took a shaky breath and relaxed back into the chair. "I think I made your hand useless," Harry replied.

"Can still move my fingers," Ron shrugged. "It doesn't hurt. 'S just... odd."

Harry shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. 

(Harry Potter knew few things as well as he knew unwarranted guilt. Not that _he'd_ call it unwarranted, of course.) 

"... goin' to scar, huh?" Ron mumbled, partially to himself, Harry thought. 

_(Harry threw the badge at Ron...)_

Harry winced. 

"Yeah," He said. "There wasn't... it was already too late by the time Voldemort-" Ron grimaced "- showed up in the atrium. I think I took too long trying to find someone to help - I don't know." Harry glanced away. "Took me -  _too long_ to even consider going to the brain room and checking if the Unspeakables had left any notes on what to do... was pretty surprised they did have them, honestly."

"... So everyone did disappear then," Ron concluded. 

Harry closed his eyes. "Yes." He confirmed.

"Ginny?" Ron asked. "Hermione? Neville, Luna?"

"Gone," Harry said, dully. "All the people that were arriving via Floo - gone. Dumbledore, gone. No mediwizards or - anyone alive in St. Mungo's, nobody at the Ministry, not that I'd thought there would be, but..." Harry shrugged, listlessly, the reality of the situation they'd found themselves stuck in finally registering with the teenager. 

Ron swallowed. "... my brothers? Mum, Dad?"

"I don't know." Harry said, exhausted. "I haven't seen a single living soul. If anyone was around, they'd have shown up by now. At least sent one of those patronus messages."

Ron went silent. Harry's eyes dropped shut, and he fell asleep, once more. 

* * *

When Harry woke, he was in the bed and Ron was nowhere in sight. He didn't panic, he  _didn't,_ he just got up, off of the bed where he'd been moved, and left the room. Carefully, Harry made his way through the hospital, into the entrance, and over to the Floo.

"The Burrow," He requested, and disappeared in green flames.

Once through, Harry dusted himself off and righted his glasses on his face. Ron was in the living room. 

Staring at the clock.

The Weasley's clock was not a normal clock. It had no times, just things like 'work', 'school', 'travelling', and 'mortal peril'. Usually, it had nine hands, each with a small picture of one of the Weasleys on it.

Now... now, there was only one. With the death of the others, because that's what had happened, really, Harry knows - their hands had fallen to the ground, no longer tied to any life. No longer needed to tell you their person's level of safety.

Harry sat next to Ron on the couch. 

(Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, son of two dead parents with no loving family left, knew what it was like to be an orphan. But Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, had never known his parents. Not really. They were abstract, just concepts of people that lived in his head, but - more like characters. He was told about them, he knew about them, he cared about them. Their deaths made him feel hollow like his heart knew he was missing something it needed with them gone, even if Harry didn't know what that something was. 

But Ron? He'd had  _a family._ Five big brothers, a little sister, two loving, caring, wonderful parents. 

And all of a sudden - that was gone. All at once. No chance to process, no chance to say goodbye. No closure, no bodies to bury.

They were just - gone. As if they'd never existed. The only evidence the things they'd left behind, and the memories that would fade, inevitably. Eventually.)

Harry sat there, on that couch next to Ron, and didn't say anything at all. He sat there, and offered silent comfort, because here - there was nothing he  _could_ say, not really. 

He knew. In a different way, but he knew. He could  _empathise,_ and maybe just being there, just sitting there, silently, while Ron tried to process what he'd lost all in one fell swoop - maybe in that way, Harry could help without making things worse, potentially. 

(It was, of course, no less stressful for Harry Potter than the surgery had been. But then - matters regarding emotions had never been easy because Harry hadn't been raised in an environment where dealing with his emotions healthily was something he could do. So he'd just... never really learned.)

(Just push it away. And don't deal with it later. Cedric's body, Sirius and the veil, and now Hermione, Luna, Neville, Ginny, all dispersing into the air, turning to dust and then the dust leaving too. Quirrel, doing the same, but leaving his clothes, leaving his crumbled dust and - Harry had never wanted to know what it was, that material Quirrel's body had become. 

So he tried and failed, to forget about it.)

(At this point, Harry Potter can admit emotions, in particular dealing with them in a manner that is not compartmentalisation, is not something he can do.)

* * *

Ron didn't speak. He didn't speak for the rest of the time they sat on the couch, and he didn't speak when he, eventually, went into the kitchen and grabbed something to eat. Starved, also, and fully aware not eating would help exactly none of their problems, Harry followed suit. 

Ron sat at the table, various bits of food shoved onto his plate. Neither of them had the energy to cook, and what with Ron's new loss of feeling in most of the fingers of his left hand, Harry didn't think it'd be as easy as it once was - and at that moment, the bereavement was too large, too overwhelming, for Ron to even think of such things. Think of anything other than it. 

( _Greif and mourning, grief and mourning._

_... and misplaced guilt.)_

Harry sat, quietly, at the table, after he'd eaten his fill. Ron did similarly, although it took longer because the taller boy had a bigger appetite, and perhaps it was a distraction, too - but he did similarly all the same. 

"Everyone's gone, then," Ron said, hollowly. 

Harry nodded.

The silence continued. 

* * *

_Half of the sentient life-forms in the galaxy had been Snapped away. Had been - turned to dust._

_The question, then stands - what about the non-sentient ones? Was it only the **sapient** sentients, or was it all sentient creatures, regardless of the level of sapience? _

_What would a magical portrait count as? A Kneasle? What would happen to a sheep, a cow, a horse? A post owl?_

_... a dementor?_

* * *

Harry and Ron had, eventually, tired from all the awful events of the previous two days (and, really, their lives since starting Hogwarts - but that's more a mental tiredness, a lethargy from having to fight so often and so much, not a physical need for sleep as the case was here), retired to bed. The two of them avoided all room with signs of people they'd lost, and made their way purposefully up to Ron's room. The cot Harry slept on was pulled out, and then the two turned in for - the day. 

They'd been up all night, and then sometime after, and now it was... somewhere in the region of two to five; afternoon. 

Any sleep the two got was restless, short-lived. For both of them, memories came unbidden. Nightmares pervaded the leftover scraps of unconsciousness and bone-deep exhaustion had them staring up at the ceiling, sightless.

But eventually, the body has to give in. 

* * *

 _Hermione bent over a book with four rolls of parchment crammed full of scratched-out words for the_ **_two roll_ ** _assignment they had due Monday -_

_Ginny, laughing at the dinner table, Fred and George joking around while Percy methodically ate his food and his mum berated her two most troublesome sons good-naturedly as his dad regaled them all of the most recent strangeness involving a magical toaster going on a rampage in a village that consisted of two houses and a duck pond -_

_The hustle-and-bustle of Hogwarts, people staring and sending smiles or scowls Harry's way but he didn't care overmuch, because he had his friends, both of them; Ron had said something and Hermione had scowled, thwacked him lightly on the arm then cracked a smile - and that made it okay -_

_Luna, dissolving, Neville, dissolving, and Ron didn't notice Dumbledore or You-Know-Who turning to ash because **Ginny, Merlin Ginny you shouldn't have come you should have been safe you're my little sister and now you're gone -**_

* * *

Harry woke with a start to the sound of tapping on the window. 

"Hedwig," He breathed, endlessly pleased, then opened the window for her to enter through. The snowy owl landed on his shoulder - she dug her claws in for a moment, in a reprimand for leaving her at Hogwarts, but she nipped his ear affectionately then hooted, worried. 

"Yeah," He said, quietly, brushing down her feathers softly. Harry glanced at Ron, who was still asleep. "Thanks, girl, for staying quiet," He added, then continued. "But... yeah. Everyone's - everyone's  _gone,_ Hedwig."

Harry stared off into the distance, out of the window. The world was empty, at least, in terms of people. He'd seen hide nor hair of nobody since the battle at the Ministry, other than Ron. 

Hedwig hooted softly, butting her head into his. 

"You wanna see if you can find someone?" Harry asked. She hooted in affirmation. "I don't know, girl," He winced as she dug her claws in. "Not that you aren't a great post owl, I'm not saying that." Harry paused for a moment, soothing her ruffled feathers. She'd flown a long way to get to him, here, and what with him moving about so much - Ministry, random houses across the UK, St Mungo's, and The Burrow - he can't have been that easy to track, even for a post owl as good at her job as Hedwig. "It's just..." Harry sighed. "I don't think there's anyone left, at least in England, and I don't want you gone for long enough to try and find someone in the rest of Europe, let alone the entire world."

Hedwig hooted, understanding. She flew over to the window and barked, lightly - that strange not-hoot sound she made often enough - and a small little ball of feathers and energy came zooming into the room, and excitedly did a loop of the ceiling. 

Pigwidgeon. Ginny had named him. 

Hedwig made a few annoyed and exasperated hoots, then flew up, over to Pig, in order to corral him onto the window sill. 

So. Animals survived whatever happened, then. Was it just people?

Harry frowned. If it was just  _people,_ as in _humans_ then... but no, if every person suddenly disappeared into dust, Dobby would have likely been worried enough (in the elf's own way) to come and check if Harry had also been Disappeared. And did werewolves class as human? Vampires? Who knows. They'd never been taught that.

What separated who was Disappeared and who was left behind? Why were Harry and Ron left, when _everyone_ around them was taken?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's literally just going to continue to be 'oh dear' for a while now whoops.


	4. Connections.

Harry went downstairs with Hedwig, who prior to that had barked and hooted at Pigwidgeon until she got something of an affirming hoot in regards to not bothering his young human; Ron, who was still asleep on the bed. 

Harry quietly picked up the hands of the clock that had fallen, then placed them along the mantlepiece of the fireplace. He stared, for a moment, at each of the pictures in turn - they moved still, laughing, smiling - forever silent reminders. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. He turned around, then went into the kitchen.

Hedwig hooted softly as she alighted onto the back of one of the chairs. Harry set about making breakfast the muggle way, as he'd never found out how to use magic to do anything regarding cooking. He made sure too make far more bacon than either he or Ron would need, in order to give Hedwig something to eat, too (they'd need to go back to Hogwarts at some point, to gather their things, but Harry was wary of the creatures that might have lived which would have probably escaped the forbidden forest right now - unless Acromantulas counted as 'people'? the lack of answers to all of Harrys' questions was horrifying - ) then set about eating. 

Ron showed up a few minutes later. Hedwig was munching happily on her plate of bacon, while Harry gestured to the food on the table. 

"It's real then," Ron said, his face ashen, freckles standing stark in contrast to the pallor of his skin. "What I remember."

Harry let out a sigh. "Yeah." He nodded, slowly. "Everyone's gone."

Ron walked over and slumped down onto the chair opposite Harry. 

( _Percy usually sat there. Or Bill, whenever he was home._ Ron swallowed, loss heavy on his heart.)

Harry pushed a plate over to Ron's side of the table. Ron nodded, slowly, and started plating himself some food. 

"Didn't know you could cook," Ron muttered. A change of topic, Harry knows, because Ron doesn't want to talk about the elephant in the room; his missing family. Harry, a known fan of pushing things away until they boiled over would normally accept this, if the topic chosen didn't poke at one of his own avoid-at-all-costs problems. 

"Yeah," Harry said, shortly. 

Ron scowled at his bacon. "Your  _fucking_ muggles, right?"

Harry didn't need to dignify that with an answer. Ron nodded, sharply. 

"Right," The redhead muttered. " _fucking course it is."_

Harry returned to eating his breakfast. 

* * *

"I'm going to Hogwarts," Harry said to Ron, who blinked at him in response. "Why?" He asked, vaguely confused.

"Our stuff's there," Harry pointed out.  _And maybe, just maybe,_ Harry thought, privately,  _Dumbledore might have heard that prophecy, once upon a time._

Ron must have seen something of that private thought in Harry's expression, because he nodded, sharply. The redhead's eyes wandered over to the mantlepiece, and Harry figured there were things Ron wanted to do alone, too. 

Harry grimaced and nodded in response, then stood from the couch and walked over to the fireplace.

He called out for Dumbledore's office, then stepped into the green flames. Once Harry was gone, Ron stood then also walked over to the mantlepiece. He picked up each clock-hand and stared at the eight different faces smiling up at him. 

He took a shaky breath, then went outside. In the vegetable garden, the gnomes had gotten back in, but that wasn't Ron's current destination. Ron turned right, then walked down the path to the small orchard they had. After all, some fruits grew on trees. 

Once he arrived, Ron looked around.

Eight trees. Ron walked to each, then with an overpowered sticking charm, put one family member on each tree.

He didn't have any bodies to bury, no graves to make. This is the closest he can get, a memorial of sorts... so he's going to take that. It might not be as cathartic, and the clock-hands will need re-spelling fairly often until he learns a permanent sticking charm, but...

Ron closed his eyes after he finished. Then, he went around and carved their monikers; names an nicknames and titles and - whatever he could think of, under the clock-hands. Once done, Ron lowered his slightly-shaking wand hand, then went back to the Burrow, solem and silent. 

* * *

Harry narrowly avoided face-planting onto the floor of the office, then looked around. The paintings were moving, harried, and seemed very,  _very_ shocked at his appearance in the room.

"You, boy! You're alive!"

"That's the Potter boy, isn't it?"

"Harry Potter! 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'; no wonder!"

"Mr Potter, have you seen the Headmaster?"

"Gladys, I've been trying to tell you this since yesterday -  _everyone's gone!_ Even the bloody House Elves and those blasted, star-loving, incessantly philosophising Centaurs!"

"Now listen here, you old codger, I'll hear none of that from you, Divination is a perfectly worthwhile subject!-"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, as loud as he could - and, well. Harry had it on good authority that he was  _bloody loud_ when he tried to be. 

Regardless, at this - the room quieted. 

"Got a set o' lungs on 'im, dun'e now?" One voice muttered. Harry rolled his eyes.

"There's nobody in the castle?" Harry asked, then, when too many voices started speaking over each other again, he grabbed a random object and held it like he was about to shatter it.

"No don't that's priceless!" One woman shouted, which drew the others' attentions. "The Headmaster spent years on that!"

"Then shut up!" Harry yelled. "And  _one at a time,_ fuck's sake!"

The woman nodded, hurriedly. 

"You were right," She said before anyone else could speak up. "There's nobody else in the castle. We're lucky Hogwarts runs mostly off of the power in its stones to keep the non-ward spells up and running, otherwise, there'd be complete chaos."

"Non-ward spells?" Harry asked.

"Yes," She nodded, no less harried than she'd been when Harry had entered the office but slightly more relaxed now a person who could interact with the world was around. "The suits of armour, the defences like the statues that can come to life with the activation spell, us portraits, the ghosts - though they stopped... they aren't moving, and they haven't responded to anything since everyone Dusted - but... most the rest of everything is fine, except for the spells the teachers and the Headmaster had put into effect. Like the locks on doors that the castle doesn't enforce, and the Headmaster's will over the wards. You're lucky you came in the castle this way, Mr Potter, since after everyone Dusted the defences were activated. The front door's a deathtrap and the lake's resident Giant Squid isn't happy. 

"Also," She added, "The hat went silent. It could still be alive in there, but none of us can put it on to check."

Harry stared at the woman's portrait as the information she'd given registered, then he nodded. "Okay," He said. "Are there any spells the teachers or Dumbledore had on the castle that needs to be, uh, re-spelled?" He asked.

The woman sniffed. " _Re-applied,_ Mr. Potter," She said, annoyance colouring her tone. "And -  _all of them,_ of course. They are what the Headmaster and the teachers wanted on the school, so there they stay."

"Except for the ones by that Delores woman," Another said, angrily. "But then, the castle didn't recognise her stint as Headmistress, so once she left the premises into the forest, it dissolved all her spells and 'Decrees' anyway."

"She was never Headmistress." The woman said, primly. "She never stepped foot in the office.

"Regardless, Mr Potter," She turned her attention back to Harry, "Spells that a student such as yourself can apply which need to be re-applied are few and far between, and all highly unimportant."

"Well, alright," Harry said. 

"It would be nice if you could see if the hat was dead or not, though," Another piped up. "Or if Godric's little experiment has finally kicked the bucket."

Harry frowned up at the portrait, then shrugged. He turned around then walked over to and picked up the hat. Harry carefully, with some trepidation, put it on his head.

 _Ahh... Mr Potter,_ the hat murmured, but the voice was quiet and weak. 

 _I cannot tell you, or anyone, what occurred,_ the hat said, sadly,  _for I do not know. But since most people are dead, my bonds of silence regarding their secrets are dead, and there may be things that I know which could help._

"Bonds of silence?" Harry asked. The portraits stayed noticeably silent. 

_Yes. I've never been allowed to divulge what I found in a person's head, Mr Potter, not until they are long dead. But my links to the dead are bypassable, and those that are Gone are not dead, Mr Potter - it is like they never existed, therefore, I have no bonds to bypass regarding them._

"They're  _not_ dead?" Harry asked, surprised.

_Mr Potter, for all intents and purposes, they might as well be. Wherever they are, neither you nor Mr Weasley could reach them. They are not Beyond, and they are not Here, and they are not There. They are, indeed... nowhere._

Harry frowned. 

_Their souls, Mr Potter. Their souls were destroyed._ _And the shells left behind... turned to dust._

 

Harry let out a shaky breath. 

 _Ask me some questions, Mr Potter,_ the hat encouraged.  _I will tell you the truths that I can._

Harry hesitated. 

"... The veil," He asked, giving in. "The - arch. That Sirius fell through. What... what does it do?"

 _They did it..._ the hat sounded - disconcerted?  _Oh, what did you do, dear children, what did you **do?**_

Harry waited. 

 _... Mr Potter, Mr Black is..._ the hat sounded hollow.  _He has been Transported. Taken. Much like the Gone, you will never find him Here. And much like the Gone, I suggest you don't take the way he did to Leave this realm._

The hat's words sounded final. Harry nodded and moved on because he knew he wasn't going to get anything more from it on that subject. 

"Do you..." Harry hesitated. "Do you know... is there a way to find out if there's anyone at all left alive, other than having to examine every single existing place on earth?"

 _Other than checking everywhere on Earth and beyond, there is no possible way for you to find out if there is another sapient, sentient life-form anywhere in this section of the Universe, Mr Potter,_ the Hat said, resignedly.  _It appears you and Mr Weasley are the only ones left._

"Sapient, sentient life-form..." Harry echoed. "What does that mean?"

_It means, Mr Potter, creatures that can think in complex ways beyond eat, sleep, reproduce, rinse, repeat - in very simple terms. People, house-elves, even very tremulously Acromantula count._

There was a pause. 

_Mr Potter, I suggest great caution when exploring the world. Non-beings do not count. Non-sapient but sentient beings, do not count. Though all things that could be classified as 'people' in their own right, all species of that sort are Gone - there are many very dangerous things left._

_Boggarts. Dementors. Lethfolds. Dragons. Nundus. A wide and varied lot, I assure you, are still here. Still **dangerous.**_

Oh. Harry nodded, slowly. "Okay." He said. 

 _You don't have to ask everything right away,_ the hat said.  _If you want to leave questions for later, or need some time to think of any, you may come back and ask._

"Right," Harry agreed. "Okay." 

 _We shall speak again, Mr Potter,_ the hat said, then Harry took it off and placed it back on the shelf.

 

 

 


	5. Confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not soon, but at least not too much later. I hope.

Ron was on the couch when Harry flooed back into the Burrow, and stayed staring at nothing while Harry half-heartedly dusted the soot away and dropped onto the armchair. Mrs. Weasley's enchanted knitting needles, usually floating just slightly above and in front of where a person's lap would have been, were lying inert on the carpet - like the rest of their magically-enhanced-object brethren, who's magic was tied to the existance of the person who cast it.

Harry sat there, stuck on the fact that he - he really didn't know what to do now. There was a hollow feeling somewhere in his chest, in the region of his heart, to put it poetically, and it didn't seem to want to be shaken. Ron was quiet, and contemplative, it seemed - and wholly unlike himself in his countenance, for an _unholy_ number of obvious reasons.

_Merlin._

"We should..." Harry trailed off. _What should they do?_ There wasn't anything _to_ do. Everyone was - everyone is _dead,_ they're the only two _left._

Harry hadn't even fucking heard the prophecy. The thing he'd gone to the Headmaster's office for, he hadn't even accomplished.

Fuck.

"We should _what,_ Harry?" Ron asked. No matter how it was meant, the words only sounded _tired._

"... I don't know." Harry admitted.

"Yeah," Ron said, hollowly. "That's what I thought." He stood, and left the house, the door slamming shut behind him. Harry closed his eyes.

Fuck.

* * *

He was getting a migraine, Ron had walked out about half an hour prior and Harry still hadn't seen him yet, everyone _is dead,_ and he's finally heard that prophecy.

Five minutes. That's all it took. Floo to the Headmaster's office, ignore the portraits, rifle through Dumbledore's pensive memories. Leave.

Harry chucked the plate he was holding. It smashed, cathartically, against the tree trunk. He cast _reparo, accio,_ and then threw it again.

"What in _Merlin's_ _name_ are **you** doing?" Ron asked, out of nowhere, and Harry nearly hexed him in surprise - he was angry and tired and upset and hollow and confused and grieving ( _Sirius, fuck, god, did all that to **save** him but he's just **dead)**_ and - and so, so many other emotions - but he didn't.

"Smashing a plate." Harry said. "It was in Dumbledore's office."

"... Least it's not - not... _mine."_ Ron said.

Fuck. Yeah. Not 'ours'; there aren't any other Weasleys for it to have possibly belonged to anymore. 

Harry's hand shook, the one not holding his wand - and he clenched it in anger. _How fucking dare this happen._ How _dare it._ Everyone's dead and there's... nothing and nobody could have stoppped this. Nothing. No-one. And his friends' last hours on Earth were - were fucking _pointless._ _Wasted time._

All of _that_ for a fucking _shitty prophecy._ Sirius **_died_** for it, _and would have been one casualty too many for something Dumbledore already had._

_They should have fucking destroyed it. They should have taken Harry there one day and had him **smash the bloody thing and be done with it** because it's not worth this, not at all -_

"I listed to the prophecy." Harry said, tone that of cold anger. Harry relayed it to Ron, who sighed explosively. 

"... what a fucking _waste,"_ Ron said, a few mintues later. "Yeah," Harry said bitterly. "All this for _that._ And now the **bastard's** dead anyway, so what was the fucking point?"

"There's - there _has_ to be something," Ron said. "Just - bloody hell, I don't _know._ This can't be... it."

"It is," Harry said, grimly.

"... at least we have magic." Ron said, dully. "'Magine how _awful_ it'd be to be the two last muggles left."

Harry grimaced. Yes, he supposed. At least there was that.

* * *

"Maybe the DOM has something." Harry blinked at Ron, then frowned once he registered what Ron meant. "You mean, the Department might have - had warning?"

"Maybe," Ron said. "Bit strange it was so _deserted,_ isn't it? I mean... not even one person doing some overtime, or something. I mean, imagine - imagine someone like Hermione, with access to _all_ the time turners and _all that research..._ they'd never fucking leave."

Harry swallowed, heavily, at the mention of his other best friend, then sighed.

Ron wasn't _wrong._ A sad little smile tugged at Harry's mouth for a moment, before he sighed again.

"Nothing else for it," He said, standing. Harry wasn't sure what Ron had taken to do the last few hours - when Harry had returned to the burrow, Ron had not followed, and nor had he been at Hogwarts when Harry visited to grab a few things and try and pry for more information from portraits who knew nothing in some desperate attempt to find _something -_

"Right," Ron nodded, relucted even though it had been his own idea for glaringly obvious, recent trauma related reasons.

Not that Harry would bring that up. He's well aware of the wish to... push aside that sort of thing.

"... right," Harry said, then walked over to the floo, and transported to the Ministry. He waited for Ron, then the two made their slow, cautious way through the halls and down the elevator, past floors they might explore for the chance that they _might_ have something useful hidden _somewhere_ if the Department of Mysteries doesn't have anything.

"Here we go," Harry said. Ron echoed the same sentiment; wary, cautious optimism (because they don't have _anything else),_ and then the two teenaged wizards started navigating the confusing rooms of the DOM.

The first room they enter is the prophecy room, because of course it is. After the destruction the battle within wrought, though, it couldn't look more different. Or more dangerous. It takes a lot of vanishing and _depulsos_ to clear the path - and maybe a gratuitous use of bombarda, though that's mostly out of a sense of aimless anger at this whole situation, and really only makes the environment more hazardous, as it sends thousands of shards of thousands of crystal balls flying everywhere, along with the metal from the numerous shelves.

Luckily, none of it flies backwards towards them. So, they clear the prophecy room, and move on. The chamber they spend no more time in than to cross over to the door while giving the Arch a wide berth, and they loop around through the other rooms. There are random notes people had left on their desks, there are random books and rolls of parchment, there are quills and bags with people's things in, but nothing of use.

The things are strange, though. There was already no signs of life here when they arrived... but - the Dusting happened _after._ A while after. Neither Harry nor Ron had paid much attention upon arrival or during the battle (the latter for obvious reasons) and it was startling to realise that it almost looked like...

"D'you think they Dusted first?" Ron asked, quietly. It echoed in the planet room - all the orbits were out of alignment, which was a shame, and Neptune and Pluto had imploded at some point - a question with no truly knowable answer.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" Harry replies, answering with a question of his own. The planet room is the room with the least amount of work in it, in the sense of books and notes and things - but the magic in here was impressive - and _oppressive._ It felt heavy, for lack of a better term, like Harry was being weighed down by a tonne of bricks.

"Can you feel that?" Harry asked. He wasn't talking about the weight of the magic, but rather the - undercurrent. It wasn't coming from here, but rather elsewhere... Harry couldn't quite place it, but it felt like it was - tugging.

* * *

_All of Magic - spread between two people. She can hear them, now, their cries for help. Not that they know they're doing it, of course.  
_

_It's good for them... that she can hitch a ride. Otherwise - if they **left.**_ _She'd have been left behind._

* * *

 

"Yeah." Ron said. "That's... that's not right, Harry."

Harry frowned up at the redhead. "What do you mean?"

"... It's - stories, mostly." Ron hesitated. "In - books, kids books, adult ones, like... muggles have stories about wizards, right?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, we do too," Ron said, "About muggles. Some of 'em - they aren't... so muggle, you know? They got... magic sense, I guess. The ability to sense magic _very_ strongly. 'S not - people don't normally have that, not to-" Ron winced. "This extent. Magic sensitivity is usually, uh, subtle."

Not like Harry's got a rope tied around his waist trying to drag him towards whatever he's sensing. Well, that makes - sense.

"Loads o' crackpot theories about how magic _came to be_ exist, too," Ron added, frowning in the direction Harry could tell the metaphorical rope was coming from. "Most are really bloody dumb, some involving 'higher powers', the rest trying for logic. There's this - one, though," Ron hesitated. "It's - I mean, I guess... it's - how do muggles think... stuff exists?"

"Science," Harry said, knowing what Ron was getting at. "The universe happened because - 'big bang', and then gasses became stars and stuff happened and galaxies and stuff and then earth. Billions of years, humans, couple millenia, now." Harry shrugged. "I uh... I think you learn more in secondary, but..."

"Right, well," Ron shrugged, "Some people think Magic created Earth, 'cause it's _sentient._ Y'know? Like how the wand chooses you, not the other way around, and how your patronus and animagus form aren't up to you, and how people like Metamorphmagi exist, really at all."

( _Magic can tell you that she did not, in fact, create 'Earth'. There isn't one Earth, after all - and frankly, Earth can create itself, she's not the boss of it, and it's done it so many times it can do it in it's sleep... metaphorically speaking. Earth isn't sentient (this one, anyway) and it can't exactly sleep.)_

 

 

"Do you?" Harry asked. That's - this is... after learning about the witch burnings in his third year, Harry hadn't given much thought to Wizarding beliefs... it sems silly in retrospect, of course, but - after all... why _wouldn't_ some wizards and witches believe in a god - or multiple - when they have **proof** of 'miracles', plain as day?

Multiplication of food, 'water into wine/other alcoholic beverage', _people coming back to life_ \- not necessarily for the **better,** of course, given that the only one Harry knows has done that is fucking  ** _Voldemort_** \- but... still.

It's something to think about for someone more religion-inclined than him, Harry thought, ruefully.

"Not really," Ron said. "Magic's sentient, sure, anyone can see that - but... the Earth's a bit _big,_ isn't it?" Ron shrugged, awkwardly. "I _dunno,_ Harry."

And that's the problem, isn't it? Harry realised. Neither of them really know _anything._

"Lived with it my whole _life,_ and I couldn't tell you anything Hermione wouldn't know more about," Ron said, storming off in the direction the magic was tugging at them from. Harry felt a pang at Hermione's name, again - and, of course, he could tell Ron did, too.

A lot of the time, when he was upset, Ron resorted to anger. It just - it hurt to feel hollow, and Harry could empathise. Anger was... it was easier than grief.

Harry followed, more sedately. They went through the brain tank room without so much as a glance at the brains or the tanks, dead as they all were (Harry had, of course, made sure of _that -)_ and stopped, abruptly, in the time room.

"Obvioulsy." Harry said. "Time. What we need is _time,_ when everyone's been dead for over _the amount of time a time turner can go back!"_

Harry would have smashed something if there were anything left to smash. As it stood, all there was in the room was the remains of decades upon decades worth of time-related research, all of which had been destroyed in - a matter of seconds, really.

"Do you think there's something we could've done?" Ron asked, as he stared at the destruction.

"No way to know," Harry said. "We don't even know _what_ _happened._ We don't know how, or why. How could we have stopped it? Nobody expected it."

"Maybe they did." Ron said. "Where did - the people that had been here had to go _somewhere!"_

He wasn't wrong. The DOM had been deserted - in something that looked supsiciously like a _rush._ Not just people going home for the evening. Though it could have been that nobody was doing overtime that particular evening... it was... too cooincidental. And - too much of their valuable, dangerous research had just been left on the table for prying eyes.

Like they knew - or suspected - that nobody would have the chance to read it. Nobody that could use it, anyway, what with no reason left to do so.

But that's just - it's just... it's a conspiracy, really, Harry knows. A _theory,_ nothing concrete. Ron treaded through the dust, the sound of glass and metal accenting his footsteps, and he rifled through the contents of a desk. Most nothing in the room had survived the battle, from what Harry could see - but -

There was a lot of gold in this room. Broken time-turners, failed prototypes, you name it. But...

Harry walked over to the far wall. There was a plaque - it had been damaged by a misfired spell, it looked like, and it was completely illegible, but...

Harry tapped it with his wand. "Finite," He said. It fell off the wall with a resounding thud, and clattered to the ground. Ron didn't look over, engrossed in searching through the work the Unspeakables had left on the desk as he was, as Harry pointed his wand at the revealed cavity in the wall.

"Accio," He said, not knowing what was inside the hole; for obvious reasons, he wasn't about to just stick his hand on in there. Something flew out, and he caught it in his free hand, seeker reflexes saving the object from hurtling to the floor.

Good thing, too; it, like many of it's bretherin, was mostly made of glass and other easily smashable materials.

"I think that's what the notes are going on about," Ron comments. He'd walked over, notes clutched tightly in his hand, slightly scrunched up from the force. "Battle did a number on all this," He continued, "But most of these survived. But, bloody hell, they could've talked in _normal fucking english."_

Harry looked at the notes, and privately agreed. "Probably are," Harry said. "Just - way above our understanding."

Ron looked morosely at the notes. "Well, they describe that in _plain_ english," He pointed at the object Harry was holding - "So..." Ron shrugged.

"At least there's that," Harry sighed.

This visit _did_ gain them some things - but mostly, Harry thought, it just raised more questions in answer to their old ones... adding to the list, instead of shortening it.

Harry sighed. "We should go," He said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "Where?"

"... Hogwarts," Harry said. "Floo in, Dumbledore's office. He's _bound_ to have had some books or _something_ that could help us with them," Harry gestured to the notes, "And this." He held up the object.

"Alright," Ron said. "That works."


	6. Correlation.

Ron was keeping ahold of The Object (neither of them were really sure what it was, and it didn't look like anything, so... The Object it is) because, well, Harry had never had the best luck with the floo network, and they defnitely didn't want the damned thing to get damaged in any way.

That would be... bad.

Harry dusted himself off upon arrival in the Headmaster's office, and ignored the paintings as they started talking over each other at him again.

"Would you shut it?" Ron demanded, once he was through. The portraits grumbled but did, slowly, stop talking, which was a relief. That migraine Harry had been on his way to getting had returned full-force thanks to the floo trip. 

"Alright," Ron said. He put the object on the desk, carefully, and spread out the notes the Unspeakables had made on the table.

It still all looked like gibberish, to Harry. Whatever they were on about on those rolls of parchment was _way_ above his level of understanding to an almost insulting degree. Insulting because - hey, that strange tugging from... something had led them to this, as if to say _this is what you need,_ but, it turns out, that they're likely going to have to follow the career path of someone who ends up an Unspeakable working in the medium of Time Magic to be able to use what they've found.

Which, frankly, is highly unlikely any time soon, and Harry doesn't know what to _do._

(Harry can deal with shitty situations. Harry can fight, he can endure, he can survive - but... this isn't like that. It's not a battle, not the Dursleys, not being hated by everyone and their mother's pet cat - it's... it's the end of the world. Completely. Utterly. Everyone just -

Gone.)

Harry took in a breath, and he hated how shaky it sounded. Ron's arms shook, the strange scars stark against his freckled skin, and Harry hated how much it was his _own damned fault_ that Ron didn't have feeling in half of his fingers. 

Harry's been - sort of... not ignoring it, just unable to focus on it so far with all the other shit that's been going through his head, but - whenever Ron goes to pick something up with his nerve-damaged hand, he has to focus his attention on it. He can't tell that he's touching something with anything other than his thumb, so his grip fumbles and he scowls at the object until he's holding it tightly, too tightly - his knuckles are white but he can't  _tell._ Can't feel it.

You could cut his fingers off and he wouldn't even notice. Harry feels a hollow sort of horror at that, a guilty sort of concern. A terrified sort of worry.

"How is it?" Harry asked. "Your hand."

"I dunno," Ron said. Ron cleared his throat and looked back at the parchment. He frowned, annoyed, at the words written on it.

"C'mon," Harry said. "What'd you say earlier? Dumbledore's got to have books on this. I mean, look." Harry gestured to the shelves and shelves of books and strange contraptions laid out before them. "There's got to be something here."

"Got to," Ron agreed.

* * *

There were books, but they were as understandable as the Unspeakables' notes had been. 

"Fuck!" Ron said, loudly. Harry gave in to his terrible, shoddy mood and grabbed the nearest shiny, shitty, uselessly complicated,  _fragile_ instrument of what-the-fuck-ever, and smashed it against the wall. 

There was no use. Harry sank down, against the desk, and leant his head against his knees.  _Fuck._

Harry heard the floo activate, but didn't follow Ron out of the office. Merlin.  _God._ What the hell were they supposed to  _do?_ They - they were fifth years. Harry had fucked up saving Rons' arms. How the hell is either of them supposed to  _not_ fuck up whatever this Object is for, since they can't even understand just  _one_ of the sentences in the Unspeakables' notes?

Harry didn't know. 

* * *

Ron knew, objectively, that everyone was  _gone._ But it - it was different, to walk into Diagon Alley, and just hear... nothing. The streets were bare, the only sounds that of signs blowing in the wind. The Magical Menagerie was the loudest shop - which proved that animals were still around, at least, maybe? - but everywhere else was just... erriely silent. 

Ron's footsteps echoed, somehow, loudly on the cobbled street, as he walked around. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a single soul could be found.

That wasn't why he was here, though. Whatever that object was, Ron knew, just  _knew_ it would fix this. Or - or it would, at least, get them somewhere people are, or something. They can't just... live and die alone here. They can't. 

Ron's hand shook, and he shoved it into his pocket. Harry's done his best, obviously, but... he wasn't a healer. Complications were - to be expected, really, and if all Ron's got is being a bit shaky and unable to feel his fingers, mostly, but not, you know, being dead... well, he'll take it. 

Ron put all of the potions into the bag - he'd gone to the trunk shop first since he might as well get one of those bottomless bags to carry all this in - that he figured they'd need, then left the shop. He went through all the other shops and found what he figured they might need from them, too. 

Year of all years, and it had to be  _this one_ the world ended in. Not when they're older, smarter, but when Harry's - not doing great, and while they're fighting a bunch of Death Eaters, and Ron's gone and gotten himself attacked by a bunch of - brains. 

Ron flooed back to the Burrow. It was getting late. After he'd dropped off the bag, he went back to Hogwarts. Harry wasn't in Dumbledore's office.

Ron sighed, and walked out into Hogwarts for the first time since they'd left for the DOM. 

It was quiet. Hogwarts - wasn't really a quiet place. A large castle filled with over a thousand students and many ghosts and talkative portraits - it just... it was never really silent. But, walking through the halls, Ron's steps echoed on the stone floor, his breathing pretty much the only other sound he could here. The portraits were - alive, obviously, but most were asleep. Nighttime, after all, but... also probably because they didn't want to have to deal with the fact that everyone was just  _gone._

Neither did Ron, really. He just - he wasn't thinking about it. Much. 

Ron found Harry in the Room of Requirement. The DA's room still had the pictures on the board it had had before - but the board was bigger. Cedric had been the only death, before, but now - now there were more. 

A lot more. 

Ron stood next to Harry and looked up. Hermione was frowning down at a book - Creevey had never known when not to take pictures, since to him pretty much everything was an opportunity for a photograph. Ron's glad of that now. 

Ron looks at the other pictures, too. There's - Ginny, practising expelliarmus with Luna. His brothers, in their various pictures. There's one of Charlie and his friends, after a quidditch match; there's one of Bill, there's one of Percy - the twins. There's a picture of his parents, his mum and dad and the rest of the order like there'd been a picture of the last order - standing all grouped up, side by side with the other members. 

"We're going to figure it out," Harry says. 

 _We have to,_ he doesn't say - but Ron knows he means it. 

 

 


End file.
